


you’re my baby, say it to me

by softsmilesandbrokenhearts



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Depression, Requited Love, Self-Esteem Issues, the sun and the earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29614761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsmilesandbrokenhearts/pseuds/softsmilesandbrokenhearts
Summary: In the absence of that happy thing, George feels less sure. There in the absence of an excuse, George looks away, shame catching in his throat.If Ringo is the sun, bright and happy, and never changing then George is the Earth.Or, George wants and Ringo hesitates. Despite it all they work things out.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 21
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SittingOnACornflake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/gifts).



> i caved and finally wrote them!!!! i’m a mess and SittingOnACornflake is to blame (go check their work out !) ughhhhh anyways here’s a little nonlinear introspection piece on wanting and finding solidarity in the small moments

Sometimes George let’s it all get to him. The way the fame burns at his energy, tears apart any remaining semblance of normality. He’s not like John, who has begun to hate performing with a vitriol excepted from him, or even Ringo with his quiet hesitation, eyes flickering through large crowds with something frustrated running through across his face. He’s not Paul, hopelessly optimistic and desperate for things to remain the same.

George just is… tired he supposes.

Tired of music, just a bit, tired of screaming and angry studio sessions. Frustrated with how even if he’s part of the band, sometimes it feels like him, and Ringo if he’s being fair, are just secondary to them. 

The two who keep the spotlight on them, John and Paul, and their songs, and unspoken love, all of their moments complied in everyone else’s brains. They steal fans, and album spots, and studio sessions, until Ringo and George are left with the leftovers. They never leave well enough alone, and well.

Sometimes he lets himself get tired of it. Being second to people who shouldn’t be in front of him, and he lets the jealousy and fury build up in him until there is no more room for it to go. He tears away at his guitar with splitting riffs and angry lyrics, and sings until he can find some peace in it all.

Other times he’ll look at Ringo, something akin to hurt lingering on his face, and the older man will smile back, knowing but infuriatingly optimistic. Ringo will say something, a bit funny, but also incredibly wise, and George listens. He always listens.

And well then George can’t think of why he was angry in the first place. He focuses instead on Ringo’s wide hands gesturing around, the way his lips purse around a cigarette.

And he wants. 

George sits across from the man, knees knocking together as the bus hits a rough spot. He presses his forearms to his knees, head bowed partially in thought, and another in control, something to keep his intrusive thoughts down, if just enough to keep him sane.

The sun beams through the dusty window, the blue sky unbelievably clear, and it’s song worthy, something George could piece together. He squints his eyes against the sudden light that hits his face, and it’s soothing despite the irritation. The sun has always been a hopeful thing, and maybe that’s why George has always been drawn to it.

A boisterous laugh cuts through his thoughts, and without thought his eyes cut towards the sound, something akin to the sun still giggling in front of him.

George softens despite himself, something less sad and angry as he traces the brown tufts of hair squashed beneath a cap, blue and ugly, but endearing in its own right. The sun makes the man’s skin glow, and George lets himself look, taking in the way his features soften underneath the light, eyes shining an unbelievable blue.

His fingers strum an invisible guitar, mapping out chords to a song not quite finished, and he breathes and watches. And maybe what he does next could be blamed on how tired he is, tour exhaustion beating endlessly against his head. Or the way he always feels a bit tired, something about the band in general draining him. Or maybe it’s just because Ringo is right there, not even a yard apart from him, and George wants to. His fingers reach out, brushing the man’s knee, trailing up his thighs, breath caught in his chest.

The sun disappears a bit beneath his touch, and he should have known that even the sun would shy away from him when he’s like this.

All the same, his light touches don’t stop Ringo from jolting back, a surprised noise falling from his mouth. It’s enough to get Paul to look back at them with curious eyes, and George feels a flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck. Ringo waves away Paul’s concern, sunlight catching on his rings, and George watches the movement helplessly.

It takes a few moments, both of them waiting for Paul to go back to whatever it was he was going, before Ringo looks at him, head tilted so he can catch George’s eye.

He could explain it off, let an excuse fall from his lips, but his voice is too hesitant to come out, so he just stares back for a moment, something desperate dying in his chest.

They pass by something amazing if the voices further up mean anything, and their staring contest is broken, the sunlight disappearing as they pass by large buildings. In the absence of that happy thing, George feels less sure. There in the absence of an excuse, George looks away, shame catching in his throat.

-

For the longest time, or at least as long as George cares to remember, he has always been comfortable with touch. 

He grew up in a large household with not much space, and it almost became a necessity, casual touches here in there as people pass by. Hugs and half-arsed wrestling with his siblings, affectionate pats on the back from his father and kisses from his mother.

So while he won’t actively ask for it, he’s not afraid to reach out and comfort people, reach out and love.

It doesn’t make sense that it is harder with Ringo. But it always has been, even before George knew what was building between them. He wants to, desperately sometimes, but something always holds him back.

But there is hesitation there. And it can’t be him, because he wants, wants in every moment by his side, so it has to be Ringo.  
  
And that doesn’t sit well in George’s stomach, somehow he can’t understand it all. Ringo has always been affectionate too, soft gentle touches to all of them, like a big brother reassuring them all. But somewhere along the line, Ringo stopped touching George.

George knows why deep down, and he could admit it, pressure Ringo into saying it too. But sometimes he likes it like this, simple and untouched by more carnal desires.

But other times he catches himself staring, wanting and fingers aching for more, and Ringo will stare back eyes aflame with something they both should say.

He supposes they are just waiting, for something George can not place

-

If Ringo is the sun, bright and happy, and never changing then George is the Earth.

Moody at times, brillant on others, something ever changing about him, his music, his beliefs, his energy. If Ringo is the sun and George is the Earth, then sometimes George wonders what the older man gets from their friendship. It feels parasitical, the way he feeds off Ringo, goes to him for love, for attention, some sort of reassurance that his music doesn’t sound like crap.

But like the earth and the sun, Ringo doesn’t mind having George lean in him. His attention never wavers, and he remains the same brillant man he was before. He allows George to grow and change and stands by him through it all with warm smiles, and careful words.

They fit together so perfectly, and it’s no wonder George loves him.

And Ringo loves him, that much has been made clear, and yet something about George is stopping him.

George can feel the love there ever present never changing, and it’s easy to live off this friendship of their’s and be content. He doesn’t need anything more, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

He had almost said it one night, curled into their respective beds, drink heavy in his stomach.

“Ritchie?”

“Mhm? Yeah mate?”

George had sat up a bit, eyes peering into the near pitch black darkness of their room, catching on the whites of Ringo’s eyes.

“It’s not just me who feels this right? You do don’t you?” He murmurs, and for a moment George thinks Ringo didn’t hear him. Didn’t understand what he can’t quite say. But then the man shifts upwards too, hand reaching out to turn on a bedside lamp.

Light floods the room, and George feels his stomach clench when he sees the apprehensive look on Ringo’s face.

“I reckon I do.” Ringo says slowly, and his eyes aren’t meeting George’s, and this is all wrong.

“You do?” Ringo sighs, and brushes back his hair with a quick movement, but George catches the slight shake to it, that belies the cool appearance Ringo always has. To be the cause of that makes George simultaneously happy and afraid.

“It’s not the time for this son.” The man eventually lets out, and it’s not a no. But it’s also a rejection of sorts, and George can feel his cheeks light up with embarrassment, his heart clench with something bitter.

“When then?” He can’t stop himself from asking, feeling their slight age difference in that moment, the way he whines despite himself, the way Ringo keeps on, trying to be strong.

“Just, not right now yeah?” Ringo says, and then he reaches and turns the light off, ending the conversation before it really ever started. He must have seen the hurt that flashed across his face, because he sighs again, bed sheets rustling beneath him. “I’m just worried about too much right now. This isn’t over, just leave it alone for now okay?”

What he doesn’t say is how he is hesitating due to fear, due to something ingrained in their culture since they were little, but George hears it all the same.

He opens his mouth to fight, always dangerously political these days, and a pillow comes flying at him, fast enough to wack him in the face before he can consider ducking. It’s abrupt enough to kill any of his thoughts, and his brain is hardwired into laughing over anything, so he isn’t surprised at the laughs that escape his mouth.

Ringo laughs too, boisterous yet sleepy, and George can feel the warmth of it from where he lays. And like that his anger is pushed away, by the sun’s steadiness and it’s approval of change. George is always ready to change, and it is then that he realizes that maybe he needs to learn to wait too.

So he bites back his words, saving them for later, and fixates his eyes back on Ringo’s sleepy form.

“Goodnight then.” He whispers, and Ringo hums in return, a hand flying upwards to wave at him. It’s silly looking, and George turns his head to muffle his laughs into the pillow, feeling exhaustion taking over him.

He‘ll wait, just like Ringo does for him, and it will be alright.


	2. Chapter 2

He and Ringo are like the sun and the earth, something gentle about their affections, something they never have to explain. They love simply, taking nothing for granted, and it’s easy to be with each other, even when they aren’t. They don’t need each other desperately, in a way where if the other is gone for a while they fall apart. They aren’t like that, they never had been.

They could be like that, but George hasn’t got that chance to see if they could be, Ringo hasn’t given him any sign he wants more than what they have.

But if they are like the sun and earth, the John and Paul are like moon and the stars, faraway and inexplicable, something not even they could possibly understand. It is a love too large, trying to fit within their reach, and George can see the moments they feel cold because of it, because of the growing distance between them. It never quite changes along with their growth as people, and it will ruin them, this love they have to contain.

If his love for Ringo is warm, ever constant and something to rely on, then their love is cold, dangerous, and consuming. For how similar all four of them are, it’s a strange thing to see how differently they all love.

It’s not a love George would want, and when he looks at the two of them, he doesn’t think they want it either. 

Sometimes he feels sorry for them, the way they reach out only in the dark, only touching in the space of their bedrooms, in locked closets, somewhere no one can find them. If George was allowed to, if George could put aside all his feelings and reach out to Ringo, he’d be a little less careful. And that doesn’t scare him the way he supposes it should.

And he supposes that’s why he’s doing this, swiftly knocking on their door, because despite everything, John and Paul are together. And he and Ringo are not.

Not the way George has been wanting for a while. Not the way Ringo wants, no matter how much he might not say it.

He hears muttered curse words from behind the door, and he grins despite the nerves crawling in his throat. Sometime later, after more muffled noises and a large sound, something hitting the floor, Paul opens the door with an eyebrow raised.

George takes the man in, smirking when a whiff of something heady catches itself in his nose. Paul’s shirt is on backwards, and his lips are puffy, in that sort of insatiable way he knows girls would go crazy for. He smiles even wider when John groans, eyes flickering towards him, still sprawled out on the bed. The two of them are dressed, but it’s clear what they were up to.

Some vindictive part of enjoys messing with them, payback for sleepless nights where Ringo and George were huddled up together, eyes wide against the banging beats of a bed hit the wall on the other side. All the studio sessions where they sang about love, eyes on each other in an unbearable sort of way. It’s always been like that between them, and George has third-wheeled long enough to know details about both of them that he never wanted to know.

George wants to be able to mess with them like that, to love Ringo openly, to let them suffer a bit against what he and Ringo could get up to.

Unfortunately he thinks John would just find it amusing, but at least Paul’s prudish nature can be fucked with.

“Can I help you George?” His voice is hoarse, and George wonders how Paul would sound singing like this, something scratchy and warm. He puts it away for later, something to cheekily suggest at a session.

“I have a question for you both.” He quips back, pushing his way into the room, ignoring Paul’s disgruntled noise behind him. “And it’s a bit weird so don’t go laughing at me, yeah?”

John sits up at that, sheets pooling at his waist, and George takes in the man’s bare chest. Paul walks over at that, tossing him shirt, laughing giddily when John gives him a dirty look.

The intimacy they have makes George’s chest a little tight, and he’s happy for them really, but it’s just a reminder of what he can’t have.

Or rather what he could have, if he could get the words past his throat, if Ringo would stop hesitating. If a lot of things would just stop.

“So.” John starts, eyes sleepy and hazed, but intent on George’s face. “What’s up with you?” Paul sits next to John and throws a hand in front of him, and George takes it as an invitation to sit down. He pulls a chair closer to them, and he sits down, legs thrumming with nerves.

“How did you two know?” He asks, and it’s clearly not the question they were expecting, if Paul’s reddening face and John’s blank stare have anything to say about it. He would apologize for coming on them so abruptly, but he’s a bit desperate. And he looks up to them, in a way that is a bit faded now that he’s closer with them both, but still enough to want their advice.

“Well, I mean we just sort of found out y’know? It was always there.” Paul says, avoiding the question despite making it sound like an answer. John rolls his eyes and leans forward, a wicked smile on his face.

“Paul jumped me in Paris. Couldn’t get enough of my new haircut.” 

“John! Shove off!” He then proceeds to shove John, who shoved him back with a laugh. Paul sounds angry but there is a smile on his face so George just assumes it’s another form of their weird flirting.

“John’s acting like he didn’t want me because I was a poor imitation of Elvis.”

“Git, you literally thought I looked like Elvis when you first saw me. It’s not me who was pining like a schoolgirl.”

Paul slaps him again against the back, and John giggles, carefree and happy.

“Yeah but I mean about the other bits.” Paul flicks his eyes back to George, smiling politely, making George actually say it. “How do you know love was there?” 

The three of them take a moment of awkward silence, a northerner thing whenever feelings are mentioned. Then Paul shrugs, eyes falling back into John, who’s eyes never left Paul.

“It’s always been there. It’s like Paul said, it just sort of worked out.” John allows, and George nods, because it makes sense when it comes to them, but George wants things to be a bit more perfect.

John and Paul can have their inevitably blow outs and conversations, but George wants something sweeter, a bit more romantic than jealousy or an accidental slip up. 

He loves Ringo, and it’s easy, but for some reason this part, telling him in words sounds rather difficult. He thinks it might be because they have always had some sort of languid tension between them, and despite them both knowing, to say it aloud would change things.

“Alright then. That wasn’t very helpful.” And Paul frowns like it’s his personal duty to make everyone pleased with what he has to say.

“Is this about Richie?” Paul asks and George stares at him for a moment, debating on what he should say. Eventually a nod slips past his defenses, and John and Paul grin in unison, leaning in closer to him.

“Have you guys talked about it yet?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking you lot. Not that you’re helping much.”

“He has a point Paul.” John says and Paul swats at him, and then he laughs again.

“I mean, it’s obvious there is something there between you, so what’s wrong?” 

“Ringo doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Did he say that? Wanker.” Another quip from John, intended to make them laugh, and Paul does a bit, always laughing at what John says, but George continues on unamused.

“Or rather he doesn’t want to right now. He wants things to be simpler.” George admits, and it’s alright with him, but as the weeks went by, he has begun to realize that they may never talk about it. George will eventually become to scared to push the topic and Ringo in turn won’t say anything to protect George’s feelings, like he always does.

“Mate things will never be simple for us again, we’re the fucking Beatles.” Paul says, and his voice is hard, but George can see the sympathy in his eyes. It comes from personal experience, and George offers him a pat of condolences. “You’re going to have to come to terms with that.”

George has. But as John and Paul both stare at him, something restless in their postures, George begins to question himself. He doesn’t want this forever, but he knows that no matter what he does next, the shadow of this band will be his legacy. 

Even when he wants to shine on his own, the sun will look the other way, making him submit to something that will always be larger than him.

That scares him, and it must show because John offers him a cigarette, something kinder in the shape of his eyes.

“It’s alright son. You both have things to work out.” The man says, lighting his own cigarette, and George allows the sight to comfort him, the simplicity of the gesture, some part of John that hasn’t change. It pushes away the thoughts of how much George has changed.

He wonders if John feels the change as intimately as George does, if he can feel it seeping into every aspect of his life. If Paul suffers because of it, seeing the boy he loves becoming something else. Because of the band, Paul and Ringo are the ones who have stayed mostly the same, still helplessly optimistic, still kind to the fucking awful press, still the same affection of music. 

He can’t stop himself from wishing they’d change too, if only so that they’d share the same deep sadness that covers him and John now.

George wonders if that’s why Ringo doesn’t allow this, if the harder edges of George scare him away, remind him that things are different.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing into Paul’s face just to make everyone laugh. Paul steals John’s cigarette and puffs into George’s face, mock irritation in between his eyebrows. It makes him laugh too, and it clears a bit of the heaviness that had begun to settle in his chest.

Paul’s hand settles on his knee, giving him a gentle smile, and he swallows back some lingering guilt caught there.

“I’ve made a song.” He murmurs, and John and Paul both look at him with interest. That part is still rather new to George, having the two men looking at him as an actual songwriter. “I think part of it is inspired by him. Us.” He says, gesturing to them all as a group. 

Because as significant as his love for Ringo sometimes feels, the band is important to him too, and as the months go by, the song begins to take more shape. Something sadder than how it started, something that shouldn’t fit as much as it does.

“Show him then.” Paul says, happy and a bit knowing, eyes still flickering back to John. George knows of the songs that Paul composes for John, and he wonders if John will ever get to hear them. Something about the helplessness in the other man’s frame inspires him and he smiles.

He’ll do better than them both, and when Ringo finally hears it, they won’t fall apart because of this love.

John and Paul make everything about their connection, and that’s where they are failing. They have always been too bright, and they will burn out because of it. George will do better, because he and Ringo understand this more. Ringo isn’t his everything, but he is something important, and that’s enough for George.

“Thank you.” He says and he means it. John waves him off, falling backwards onto the bed, passing off the cigarette to Paul. Paul takes a short drag, eyes shuttering closed for a moment, flickers of something too raw for George to look into.

“Maybe take your own advice yeah?” He says quickly, and he stands up before either one of them can make eye contact with him. He murmurs a goodbye, and paces towards the door, his conviction stronger than it was before.

As he closes the door, he catches Paul starting down at John’s still form, and he looks unbearably sad. His hand reaches out to brush John’ hair back, and a john curls closer to him, his own hand gripping Paul’s thigh.

George smiles a bit at that too, and he doesn’t let himself linger on the thought. Suffering makes people better, and maybe it will make them better. 

It certainly has made George better, and as he walks back to his room, humming an incomplete tune, he thinks he can do this.

Something bright settles in his chest, and he knows that when he finishes this, let’s his feelings take a more completed form, he can show Ringo.

Something sunny and bright, something Ringo can linger onto, and believe George when he says I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh i updated again hdjsjdjd this story won’t leave me alone!
> 
> also it’s weird to write jp from an outside perspective, but it was also cool to see how george might seem them as untouchable but also pitiful lol
> 
> george please stop asking them for advice they don’t even have their shit together
> 
> uhhhh sorry for making george so angst, he is just really easy to write that wayyyyyyy
> 
> anyways have a good day/night y’all :)


	3. Chapter 3

George considers himself a person of great strength. He knows that he is often viewed as the opposite, something that being the youngest of the group will never take away. But he’s a strong person, and he is able to compartmentalize things for later, saving his troubles until he can properly deal with them.

With that being said, something achy and helpless has settled in his chest lately.

It could be the weather, murky and dark, no sign of sun to draw hope from, or perhaps his own sun dying a little, gone away with a cold and a nasty disposition.

Ringo has been sick for weeks, and George normally isn’t bothered by that sort of stuff, but Ringo has a bad history with this, and all George can picture when he closes his eyes is the man sick in a hospital bed.

He’s getting better now, back at sessions, but every once and a while he’ll cough, and George will tense up, something desperate rising up again.

Rinse and repeat.

And this album is draining him, and he should be happy for it. John has allowed him more songs then usual, and Paul had followed his lead, eyes flickering over the songs with thinly veiled approval. It made him euphoric in the moment, but all he wants now is to sleep.

He’s been like that lately, a bit too sad, a bit too tired, and there is probably more to it, but George can’t look into it.

He’s too afraid to see what he’d find.

And he’s hopelessly pining, stupidly so.

He sits in the couch studio, a cigarette between his lips, hands itching to reach out and touch Ringo. To make sure he’s okay, to get some sort of reassurance that this ugly feeling rising up in his chest will fade away.

Instead he looks away, blowing smoke circles into the space around him, a perpetual frown lingering on his face. 

He looks up to a sky that isn’t there, and shivers. It’s dark, and cold enough to settle into George’s bones, and he hates it. Winter is nearly here, and George doesn’t know how to explain how awful it makes him feel.

He draws in more smoke, and holds it for a while, just for a reason to explain the way his chest feels lately. He can blame it on the smoke and bad habits, and ignore that this has been coming for a while, his helplessness, this sadness that has become a part of him.

He wants to tell someone about it, but he doesn’t know how to put it into words. His friends wouldn’t help, not in the way he wants them to. If he even wants them to help. Paul would be professional about it, holding those nine months above George’s head like a weapon. His face would turn soft and his voice low, whispers about depression and therapy, and all sorts of nonsense that lads from Liverpool don’t do. Paul would want to help him, and he can’t handle that.

John would scoff and roll his eyes, some sort of quip about how that’s life. People aren’t meant to be happy, it’s a wonder George has got by this far. He’d turn soft eventually too, passing a blunt over in apology, and hand rubbing his shoulder. His silence saying more than his words could ever manage. He’d be a good person to relate to with, someone to confide in.

But John with his secrets scares him, some part of old idolization making his chest freeze at the thought of showing weakness to the older boy.

And then there’s Ringo. God, somehow it would be the easiest and hardest with him.

Ringo would be kind, soaking up his sadness with hums of acknowledgement and a side hug. He’d spout some words of wisdom, but mostly he’d just be there. Comfortable in the silence George has built, always ready to open up when he is ready.

Ringo always waits on George and it makes him feel sick with affection and guilt.

And he’s fucking hopeless, more than usual.

His eyes unconsciously find their way back to the older man, watching the way his nose turns a bit red, the way his body shakes with fever. Part of him finds it endearing, and it also scares him, the want inside him that wishes to bundle the man up and hand feed him forever.

He stares at the smoke billowing around them, feels the secrets that lurk inside him desperate to get out. He stares up at the ceiling and thinks about all these thoughts and feelings, and wishes they’d fade away.

He thinks about how he wants the album to succeed and for his songs to do the best. He wonders about how much drugs he can take before he overdoses, wonders why he doesn’t feel guilty at the thought. He thinks about how death doesn’t bother him, and how sometimes when he says he’s tired, he’s not exhausted he’s just done with life. Most of the time though he thinks about Ringo, how much more he must try and change himself before Ringo lets himself be loved.

These thoughts release themselves up to the ceiling, and he can seem them, if he squints, as they shatter and fall apart, like all of his dreams do.

All he can think of is the sun and how much he needs it, missing the soft glow it makes in the studio, the way he could feed off of it, making that empty feeling just a bit less there. How sometimes the sun is the only thing that gets him, that understands the earth that lives in George needs it, uses it to survive. It’s probably unhealthy to rely on it like that, but it’s better than weighing all his thoughts on Richie, too kind for his own good.

And winter is here and the sun is rarely out, and George is tired. And so things will change, like they always do.

George will only grow more tired, and it will reflect on his music, on his relationships. Paul will grow worried, John will get snappish, and Ringo will only get another reason to avoid him.

And George will spiral, wishing for things to end. If just for a moment, if just to let his weary head rest a moment, end the screams that echo even in his dreams.

He’s just tired, and it’s winter, and he hardly knows what to do.

The worst part is he knows some part of him is being dramatic, and if only that strong side to him could kill these ugly thoughts, and return to that George of the past, with wide eyes and giddy smiles.

If the sadness that has seeped into every aspect of his life would just leave. If ringo would just let him talk, just let George do all the sweet and dirty things he longs to, maybe this will all dissipate. Heal the broken ache in him with his strong calloused hands and bright eyes.

He wonders if he’s vile for wanting love to fix him, if the Beatles worship for love has corrupted him, making him think that this can be fixed. 

“Want to share a blunt with me?” Ringo asks quietly, breaking the silence of the studio. George’s neck aches as he comes back down to Earth, eyes fixating on the ones in front of him.

“Sure.” He says slowly, eyes moving around the studio. “Mum and dad fighting then?” He inquires, listening to the lighter flick a few times before a cloud of sweet smoke trails upwards.

“The opposite I think.” Ringo’s nose wrinkles at the thought, and they both unconsciously look towards the bathroom, as if they could hear the antics that John and Paul were up to. George allows himself a smile, and he makes impatient movements towards Ringo, until he hands over the blunt, something slow settling over them.

“Thanks Rich.”

“It’s alright.” The man mumbles back, settling into the couch with a pleased sigh. George watches him, something giddy in his chest, like he’s thirteen all over again, discovering he likes boys. Or rather only a few boys, but he figures it’s the thought that counts, and there’s no use in debating with labels when you’ve gone and fallen in love with the same sex.

Ringo’s arm bumps against his, strong from drumming, built a bit differently then the rest of the group, who look scrawny at best. It makes him a bit heated to think of the other man’s body, and he tries to quell the flush that crawls up his neck.

But when he doesn’t think of happy things, like the arousal in his gut or the way the group makes him happier than any other mates ever had, his thoughts turn ugly again.

And he wants to hate Ringo for it, blame his sick thoughts on the man’s hesitation, even though he knows it’s his own fault. How he relies on outward things to find happiness, and every time he’s alone he wonders how he ever made it this far. He shouldn’t blame himself like this, but he can’t control his thoughts enough to remove the growing frown on his face, or the way his hand, still holding the blunt begins to shake.

“Alright there George?” Ringo asks, and George flicks his eyes towards him, sees the affection and worry sitting in the man’s eyes, and it’s awful.

“Yeah just tired I think. Haven’t slept good in a while that’s all.” He whispers back, and it’s true, even if it’s only the top of it all. Ringo frowns, something soft and affectionate in the corners of his eyes, and George wants to stop that expression before it grows.

His hand falls on the man’s thigh, and stops him from talking. The two of them stare at it for a moment, Ringo uncharacteristically still and George wired with nerves, legs bouncing up and down. Ringo must work out whatever it was he was thinking of because his hand falls on top of George’s and squeezes it, pulling it up a bit to hold, hand warm and firm against his own.

George smiles despite himself, feeling a bit breakable, small underneath the weight of it all. Ringo makes for a good anchor, someone to keep his head steady, and he wants to feel guilty, but he can see how much Ringo likes this.

Like the sun loves watching the earth grow, Ringo seems to enjoy seeing George adapt.

“It’s been cold lately.” George remarks, and he didn’t mean for it to sound like a come on, but Ringo laughs anyways, and George bites back frustration. 

“That’s what the weather does when it’s winter mate.” George let’s his irritation out, just a small noise, but enough to get blue eyes flickering towards him.

“I don’t like the winter.” He allows, and it’s the closest he can get to admitting whatever is going on with him. He can’t keep the tremble that travels through his face away, and Ringo makes a noise like he’s wounded. 

“I can give you might coat if that helps?” It’s stupid and kind, and not quite what anyone would want to hear at this moment, but it works for George. It focuses on his feelings without actually pointing them out. 

He smiles a bit, and nods, and Ringo squeezes his hand a little tighter. 

The blunt gets passed back to him, and George allows his head to lean against Ringo, waiting for a reaction that won’t happen. The man just tilts closer to him, letting out a fond noise.

He breathes in the smell of weed and takes a drag, holds it once again, counting the moments it takes for his lungs to burn, the feeling sharp enough to awaken him. It’s stupid and foolish, and could lead to worse habits, but he allows himself the small bits of pain, something to remind himself he doesn’t always have to feel so numb and sad.

He gets a little hazy, just on the right side of pleasure, and George let’s his thoughts and wishes dissipate for a moment, tries to let go.

He doesn’t think about the sun and how winter is here, or how he hates music but loves it all the same. He doesn’t even allow himself thoughts on how he and Ringo love each other, but both of them are holding back.

Ringo hesitates and George hides in fear of it all failing.

He focuses on the smoke, and wishes he could be it. There and beautiful, it’s presence large enough to make a statement, but disappearing before it gets old. Lasting forever scares him.

And maybe George is always this hopeless and stupid, because part of him wants to lean over and kiss Ringo. Press his lips against his, and breathe in his air. He knows there is an unspoken rule where they don’t do anything until they talk, but he feels reckless, and maybe it’s the weed.

Or maybe it’s his friends and how they love so loudly and recklessly, and George isn’t like that, but in this moment he wants to.

It’s the lack of sunlight getting to him, turning him mushy and thoughtless, and it’s just another reason why he hates winter. It makes him act in ways he shouldn’t, and he’s a bit tired.

He’s already counting the days until the sun comes out again, and it’s stupid but it helps him get by.

Maybe when the sun returns, he’ll be better and become the George that Ringo wants, and then they can talk and worth things out.

He’s stupid and high, and out of his mind, but sometimes part of his reasoning makes sense. So he passes the blunt back, and pulls away for a moment staring at Ringo with unconcealed want.

The man stares back, apprehension crawling over his face, and it’s not enough to quell the desire in his chest, the sadness he needs to disappear.

So he leans in anyways, eyes fixated on the other man’s lips, heart beating in his throat.

Ringo’s hand comes up to press against his chest, and it’s shaky, and his name is said, something like a warning in Ringo’s tone.

And then none of it matters anyways, because a door swings open and slams again as it closes, Paul and John entering the room with obnoxious laughs. The spell is broken, and George stays there for a moment guilt eating away at his heart, while Ringo stares at him with an unfathomable expression.

“Oh look at the lovebirds Paul! Didn’t know we had queers in the group!” Johns voice cuts through the gentle silence around them, and George jumps away, face flaming with embarrassment.

“Don’t throw stones and glass windows and all that crap.” Ringo drawls, his voice calm and unaffected except for the wavering edge that was there in the beginning. 

He can feel Paul’s eyes on them both, searching and knowing, and he prepares himself for one of Paul’s I know better than you speeches.

Instead Paul laughs, and walks a bit closer to pat them both on the head with mock condescension. 

“Hmm cute.” Paul says in return, voice hoarse and deep, something that makes John whoop with thinly veiled arousal and amusement. Paul pretends to pull off a glove and then slaps John, who falls over dramatically, yelling obscenities. And they start their banter up again, leaving George to wallow in silence. 

George swallows back any words he wanted to say to Ringo, and he instead opens his mouth to yell at the two giggling against each other. But then Ringo grabs his wrist, and George looks down to find Ringo smiling up at him.

He freezes and can barely manage a smile back, thoughts only on the idea that he messed this all up

“Let them be.” Ringo says, and what he doesn’t say is that the joke bothered him. He looks calm and composed and if it weren’t for the lingering hope around the firm set of Ringo’s mouth, George would have been dismayed.

“Yeah?” He returns breathlessly, and his fingers trail down to hold the man’s hand, hoping and wishing that things will change.

Ringo hums, and looks away, and that’s when George sees the flush that crawls up the man’s neck, coloring his ears red.

It’s enough to silence some of George’s mean thoughts, and he allows himself to forget his blunder for now. Besides Ringo keeps looking back at him, with looks he can’t quite decipher, but the want that beats in George’s chest reflects itself on Ringo’s face.

He smiles to himself, pleased and a bit amused, and he lets himself bask in this change, no matter how small it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh i didn’t mean to make george so sad, i was just reflecting and it kind works with the analogy that is in this story
> 
> also some of his thinking is wrong!! and i hope i reflected that without being repetitive
> 
> anyways hope this is good?? it’s both easy and also terribly hard to get starrison in character in a way that i could see them being canon and in love but yeahhh 
> 
> let me know !!


	4. Chapter 4

Despite all his misconceptions about this all, this type of love, the societal pressure, and all that crap, loving Ringo is easy.

Or rather it sounds easy, and George sometimes wishes things would line up just right so he can get on with things. Or, loving the man sounds so simple, and maybe that scares him.

It’s not like loving girls, who get needy and affronted at affairs, and attitudes, and everything George can’t quite control. Geogre never pretended to be a nice man, he can be quite kind if it please him, but a right bitch if not. So him and girls get along quite fine, until they want more. All the whining and soft skin, and arguments that pierce his head, he can’t handle it. It’s not a fair statement, part of him can see that, but it’s a habit born from randy teenage years, and a thirst of bodies against bodies.

Or maybe he’s just afraid of commitment, too used to the idea of having anyone. 

Ringo isn’t like that. He knows Geogre and the way he works. He understands that, watches on with amused eyes as George walks into their shared hotel room with a girl on his arm. He smiles at George, quips something filthy into his ear, and then wanders off and lets him be.

Other times it’s the older man who gets it on, a girl, sometimes too the lucky bastard, and Geogre will slip away, trying not to think about Ringo. and sex, and everything in between. 

Ringo understands, and it’s a strange thought. 

His loyalty and easy ways remind him less of anyone else he has ever loved and more like a dog, loyal and endearing to a fault. Not the best analogy of course, but Geogre isn’t the main songwriter, so how should he know how to explain things all pleasant and such. He isn’t bitter about that, just a bit tired yeah?

Or maybe it could just be that Ringo has his fair share of girls, and to be jealous would be hypocritical.

They aren’t like that, and George is thankful for it, unwilling to go through all that pain, all that hiding and wary eyes watching each other’s every move. Or maybe George just isn’t very queer, and he understands that while love is love, this means something different than how he would love a girl.

It’s simpler, and easy, and something to hold onto when things get rough.

Geogre thinks about getting rough with Ringo, and his face flushes red, something stupidly innocent about thinking about sex and Ringo together. 

He thinks about Ringo’s casual touches, a bit soft and hesitant lately, all too aware of the rising tension between them both. He touches George on the shoulders, on the base of his neck, soft scared things, waiting to be slapped away.

As if George would ever stop Ringo from anything he wanted. 

But he keeps all of these memories close by, recalls them in later moments, over a joint and a glass of scotch, and wonders. Mostly wonders of what it would be like to breach that line, do something with Ringo that would make the George of a few years ago flush a bright red, embarrassed and a little disgusted.

Sometimes he still feels a bit disgusted, not at this or the idea of it at all, but of how easily they both want, and how nothing has happened.

The closest they ever got to something like that was a massage he gave to Ringo once, both of them drunk out of their minds. He had crawled on top of the man, hips flush to the small of his back, eyes fixated on his hands digging into the other man’s shoulders. 

He remembers the noises Ringo made, low and pleased, as George released some of the tension in his strong arms. Palms pressing into soft pliant skin, and the quiet tension building between them had broke. A rush of want had went surging through him then, and it was the first moment in which George had realized that maybe all those crushes as a lad weren’t flukes. 

Sometime in the future, confident in skin, he will tell Paul about his little schoolboy crush on him, just to make Ringo laugh, and to see John flush with pointless anger. 

But afterwards George had crawled away, flushed with shame and want, half hard in the stupid trousers Brian made them wear. It was so obvious in the way he stumbled over to his bed, eyes red and focused on the ground. And Ringo had stared after him, still sprawled out on his bed, eyes thoughtful and almost pitiful. 

Something about a shirtless Ringo, flushed and sleepy, had stuck in George’s brain, and even now it’s still a fantasy. 

It was like Hamburg all over again, George learning how sexual he could be, all the other boys watching this transformation with cheeky remarks and laughs. Where he had to ask constantly, questions that made him burn up, only to get worse with one of the lads giggling and shooting him a knowing look. He had thought that was over, that he wouldn’t feel something so familiar but intrinsically different.

And he had wanted in that moment, long before he realized what this tension between the two of them really meant. 

And it was all the more embarrassing because Ringo knew.

Ringo with his bright eyes and carefree grin, freezing just a bit when he studied George, a knowing glint growing in them until all there George could here was the beating of his own heart. They stared at each other a moment longer, George hard under the pillow pressed to his lap, Ringo leaning back in his arms, tendons straining underneath the weight.

Just silence and staring, and the undercurrent of want that started this all.

And then Ringo said something funny, breaking it all, and Geogre had laughed, full of relief. 

Long after Ringo had fallen asleep, snores ticking like a clock in George’s mind, he had snuck off to the bathroom to wank off, teeth biting into the soft flesh of his arm. It wasn’t the best orgasm of his life, but he came with his friends name on his tongue, and that was enough to sear it into his brain.

He had avoided Ringo for nearly a week afterwards, and it took a blowout between them two, and a few tears from George for things to go back to normal.

It never stopped George from feeling a pulse of hunger at the very thought of the older man.

And maybe that’s why is so hard to see this hunger growing, evolving underneath the change of George’s psyche and Ringo’s warmth. It constantly leaves him wanting more.

Something about the grey streak in the man’s hair, the purse to his mouth when he is frustrated, unbearably attractive. The way he sweats underneath harsh studio lights, the scent of his cologne traveling George’s way. 

Sometimes their history together pales underneath the giant that is the band, or the Lennon-McCartney duo, press constantly wanting more. But George remembers long giddy nights, blunts spilt between them, shoulders pressed together. But then George remembers the punches he threw for Ringo, the way Ringo is there for him on low nights, and maybe it doesn’t matter.

They shouldn’t have to big, they have never had to be.

It makes him remember when Ringo let him trim his hair one night, when the screams still echoed against the room they were trapped in, rain beating against the windows.

It gave him some sort of sick pleasure at the thought of his hands in Ringo’s hair, and he remembers having to down a shot before he picked up the scissors, all too aware of the eyes that watched him. Something about the simplicity of the task but also the trust enforced beyond it made George shaky.

It made him understand the lurking feelings somewhere between his gut and throat, that perhaps it was more than lust.

Somehow that was easier to take than the lust. So George continued on, sitting behind Ringo, watching knees pressed to the sides of the man’s thighs. He was wearing shorts, and for a moment George had stared at the pale expanses of them, the freckles that danced across the man’s skin.

Ringo had coughed, not exactly awkward, but aware of the hesitance in George, something akin to desire eating away at his frame.

“I’m sorry.” George muttered, and then gets to clipping away at dead ends. 

“Don’t be.” Ringo had replied, and what he didn’t do was ask why. Because he already knew, and it somehow made the apology easier. George didn’t have to explain and Ringo didn’t have to hear it out, ears turning red with something deeper than embarrassment. 

They sat in comfortable silence, scissors mixing together with Ringo’s slow breathing, a joint being lit up with ease. George stared over the top of his head, watching smoke billow and then trail upwards.

“Pass it over yeah?” He said absentmindedly, hands threading through the man’s hair, eager for an excuse to touch.

Ringo hummed, and turned around, knees pressing up against George’s. They were terrifyingly close at that point, and for a moment George let himself picture things he shouldn’t. 

Something along the lines of Ringo on his back, thighs spread, shirt unbuttoned and trapped under his back. In this quick vision he presses his teeth into the man’s thighs and bites his way up to his cock. Envisions the taste of Ringo on his tongue, his ankles pressing into the small of George’s back. 

Ringo would groan, a chuckle caught in his throat, fingers wrapped up in George’s hair. 

Another vision, George on his hands and knees, Ringo’s strong hands on his hips, his mouth pressed to George’s spine. Something keening falling from his throat, Ringo laughing, turned on but still amused, still so endearingly happy.

A blunt to share after. Simple easy bliss.

Instead he had smiled, and reached for the blunt, ignoring the way Ringo’s eyes sparked in the soft lighting. 

“How ‘bout we shotgun?” Ringo smirked, a laugh bubbling out of him, and George remembers freezing, not understanding it was a joke.

They stared at each other for a moment, Ringo still holding out the blunt to Geogre, a frown beginning to form on his face.

And well Geogre was helpless at that moment, wordless, foolishly turned on by just a few words. 

“Yeah?” He had whispered a bit breathlessly, and he recalls the way Ringo froze, eyes flickering back to George, something dying between them.

Instead of responding Ringo had pushed the blunt into George’s hands, and he helplessly watched the man stand up on shaking legs, a smile not sitting right on his face.

“I think I should head to bed yeah?” Ringo had said, voice low, and so subdued compared to how it was before.

Geogre figured pointing out they were on the man’s bed wouldn’t help things. So he nodded, a frown setting into his face so deeply it made his muscles ache. Ringo had stared at him for a moment, throat moving with words unsaid.

They stayed that way, caught in Ringo’s mouth, never gracing Geogre with their presence.

Some moment after the man had left George, alone with a dying blunt and a weird feeling in the base of his stomach.

Rejection feels weird when you aren’t expecting it.

Of course that was before Ringo liked him back, or perhaps before he knew that he liked George. Things are simpler now, but still charged with a tension that won’t break until someone does something.

And it horrifies him that he might have to be the one to make a move. Because girls are easy, boys not so much. Let alone a friend that he hardly knows how to explain, let alone learn to love.

It would be easy if he knew what to do. And that’s the issue. He would love so easily, if he could just get to that moment.

George’s heart is in his throat, his first betrayal of many to come. 

It’s a lightheaded feeling, but it feels so heady as he crawls into bed, drink heavy in his belly. 

George still sometimes wonders if Ringo knows. There are moments where the older man stares at him with such visible want, something frantic in the lines of his mouth, but that’s just it. Want and something ugly in the base of his stomach. He wonders sometimes if Ringo knows that this is love, if he feels it back. If he understands their years together, touching and smiling, and laughing together mean so much more. If the smiles Ringo sends him, eyes bright, mean anything.

If he can feel the tremor in George’s hands, if he can understand the way his own body shakes with something unplaceable.

Ringo isn’t a stupid man, but sometimes Geogre wonders if the only thing holding back might just be that he doesn’t know.

That might be worse, loving someone so unaware.

But then other times, on those nights where George is wide eyes and stuck in a chair in the sitting area, fingers clenched around a glass a whiskey. Well on those nights, where those tears trapped somewhere inside him threaten to come up, Ringo will come up to him, a pack of cigarettes in hand and a blanket in the other.

And on those nights he lets himself relish a touch that isn’t quite his, lets himself feel comfort in a man that he wants more than he can explain.

And Ringo’s eyes will meet his, and then George wonders if he can hear the acute way George’s heart shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortish update mostly because the piece i wrote is like three times the size of this and it didn’t flow all together lol
> 
> uh ~sexual tension~
> 
> thick thighs save lives
> 
> also george’s mood changes each chapter lmao  
> this week he is a womanizer who wants sex but is also like yo why won’t ringo put out :((. (if it isn’t clear i adore them both i just think george and his sex focused brain is amusing)
> 
> ne way hope this was decent yeah hahah
> 
> cheers mates have a good night/day :)


	5. Chapter 5

But George wants. And sometimes on those nights where no girls are around, and everyone else has long fallen asleep, George lets himself want in his entirety.

His daydreams, or he supposes in this context just regular dreams are a bit hazy. Like too many drugs and bad vision, making everything a bit ugly.

A lack of experience makes the visions a bit dull, and even then in the deep lure of sleep George knows the real thing would be so much better. 

It’s an undeniable truth that George feels a huge amount of affection of Ringo, and it’s something he feels like is ruined by the lust that crawls around in his belly.

All the same, no matter how constant his love becomes, lust is always there too. Blinding and hungry, festering inside him until he has to let it out.

It creeps up inside him whenever he watches Ringo get into a particular song. He absolutely looses himself in the moments, and George watches from the side, fixated on his moving hair and sparkling grin.

He’s a bit terrified of the man, the way they all are he supposes. A sort of fearful worship of a man so kind, something larger than all the songs he could write for the man. The sun beating down in him, the last rays of an autumn afternoon, and it doesn’t matter.

Not when Ringo looks at him, something terribly funny coming out of his mouth. 

Sometimes, George also it breaks under the pressure, sadness building beneath his eyelids. And then Ringo looks at him, big down turned eyes sad and worried, and he reminds himself to control himself a bit. Think more positively.

Or when they both drink far too much, and he has to half carry Ringo to his bed, peeling back his pants, want curling around his throat. He wants to fuck him mostly on those nights, this sex crazed hunger built up inside him so strongly that he has to leave the room, teeth grit together.

But they haven’t talked about this, or kissed, or anything that would allow George to have this. And while Ringo would put out, he hesitates. Something softer in him wants things to be perfect. A soft first time that girls from back home would want, not two boys who are in something bigger than themselves. Though he reckons he doesn’t have a good example of what people like them do in situations like this. Brian, and John and Paul, never really made it look easy.). 

And he needs Ringo to want it just as much as he does, or else George might break.

So instead, he covers Ringo up, eyes flickering over his sleeping figure and he quels that fire for another night.

-

Nights are the worst time for thinking, where there is no plausible escape from the rampant thought circulating through his brain. He overthinks and winces at old memories, and is too busy trying to forget to even try to sleep.

Ringo is asleep. George is decidedly less so.

They had interviews tomorrow and if George were sane, or normal, or maybe even tired, he’d go to sleep. Somewhere, like three cities ago, he grew past being tired. It’s the type of exhaustion that can’t be fixed with a good night’s sleep, and that’s where George loses the motivation to even try. It seeps into his bone and leaves a funny taste in his mouth, like milk gone sour, the aftertaste of a shitty cigarette.

So instead he stares at the ugly bubbled ceiling, the murmured giggles from the room next to his, and he thinks about all the things he doesn’t like to think about during the day.

The way his hands are a bit too shaky lately, and the cloud in his mind doesn’t ever disappear. An eternal storm somewhere inside of him, destroying lingering edges of the sun, any hope that things will change.

That his music will never change, that the band will never be what it was in those first years, that he’ll always been unacknowledged. 

It feels almost like dying, like the George Harrison from Liverpool no longer fits this madness, and he is slowly being cast aside. Losing yourself for the ugly light of fame, for the money and the screaming fans.

It’s akin to his soul being lost, a deal he didn’t quite shake on.

But he is still here, and he is trying. So he supposes that’s all he should expect from himself. And he’s here, in a bed that is close enough to Ringo’s that if he reaches out, his fingers will brush the man’s frame.

Unable to sleep over things he won’t admit out loud, unable to sleep because he’s been in love with the same boy for years, and it’s all a bit ridiculous.

It doesn’t matter that George stops thinking for a moment, head tilting to watch Ringo’s slumbering form, or that for a moment even the incessant laughter next door stops. For a moment, in this stupid musty hotel room, George wants things to work out.

Not even in his silly daydreaming sort of way, where he keeps telling himself one day, one day, one day. That day has yet to come. No in this moment George actually feels brave enough to say something, to do something incredibly stupid.

Only in the safety of sleep can George admit this, and that is where his daydreams fall flat. It’s easy to want things that might never happen, and maybe George feels helpless. But not tonight.

Ringo looks softer when he sleeps, but also strangely older. It might be the frown lines from everything Ringo doesn’t say, packed away behind his awful persona as the funny, nice Beatle. When you are out in a role like that at such a young age, there comes a time where you can’t tell when you stopped playing the part.

And yet, he is beautiful. 

George shifts closer, arm falling off the edge of the bed to brush the floor, and he takes it all in. The rough edges to the carpet, the near silence broken by the man’ snoring. The way his mouth is slack, soft in a way it’s not when awake. Hair tousled around his face in a way that would seem lazy, but somehow is more enticing then Ringo with his hair combed perfectly. Pale skin, belong too many sick years, and an adversity for sun, despite being in it all the time.

Daring and just a bit stupid he crawls out of bed, cringing at the rough stretch of carpet to his feet. His hand brushes softly through the stray locks of hair curling around Ringo’s face, marveling at how soft he manages to get it. He imagines in an alternate universe where he allows himself to says things and Ringo isn’t so distant, that Ringo would be awake for this.

He’d peer up at George with a smile, and he’d let him touch till his heart was content. A head resting in George’s lap, a fragile heart beating too fast to control.

And that Ringo would know how much he meant to George. But in this universe George can’t say it. Half out of fear and half out of something he can’t quite place. Mostly though, he is terrified of being let down, of it all failing and ruining everything they built together. Their friendships, the band, everything in between.

If Ringo is the sun, bright and earnest and everything George could ever want, than George is the dying earth, polluted and foggy, too many drugs in his system. If Ringo wanted him, and some part of him must, than it was the George of Hamburg, still somewhat sober, kind and innocent. Not this faded thing he has become.

Then again bright things burn out quickly, and George could only live off of sun rays for so long.

George considers burning this deep down, somewhere he’ll eventually forget, if only to stop the distance growing between them. Things are distinctly awkward between them now, and George doesn’t know if he can survive another band practice where Ringo doesn’t look him in the eye. Maybe if he stops loving Ringo, or tries to, things will get better. It has its appeal, in that ugly self loathing sort of way, where the sad thing inside him wants to ruin any sort of chance of happiness.

But then again it’s easier to choose a pain you’re familiar with instead of one that will catch you by surprise.

Ringo moves suddenly, shocking George out of his stupor, and he pulls his hand back as if it were burnt. One of Ringo’s eyes opens slowly, the the bright blue shines against the moonlight cracking through the curtains.

“What’s going on?” The man slurs, voice heavy with sleep, and George shakes his head, feet moving backwards before he can even speak.

“S’nothing. Go back to sleep.” His voice shakes a bit, and he crawls into his bed, feeling his cheeks burn. Ringo groans a bit, and George hears the creaking of the bed next to him, and the man muttering obscenities. George clenches his eyes shut, and the stomping of feet coming towards him makes him wince.

“Move over yeah? These beds are fucking small.” Ringo whispers, and George opens an eye to stare at him warily. Ringo states back with lidded eyes, his jaw moving as if he were holding back a yawn. George hesitantly scoots to the left, unable to hold back a smile when Ringo lifts the covers and slides in next to him.

The combined heat of their bodies makes George already infinitely more tired than before, and he stares at George helplessly, mind trying to remember this moment before it gets too hazy.

“Next time you’re thinking so hard wake me up okay? You know I don’t mind helping you.” Ringo says quietly, half muffled by the pillow, and George nods, scooting closer to him. Ringo snorts with tired amusement, and a hand lands on the curve of his waist, pulling him closer, until Ringo’s breath hits the curve of his neck.

George relaxes into it, and tries to quell the rabbit beat of his heart.

“Thank you.” He whispers into Ringo’s hair, grinning when the man acknowledges him with an unintelligible groan. 

George is accustomed to sleepless nights, but as he lies there curled up against Ringo, he imagines what it would be like to get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally updated jfc ahhhhhh. school is getting hard and i kinda forgot that i write things for a while oops
> 
> uh short update but honestly one of my favs we love more pointless introspection ahsjdjdn
> 
> drink some water and stay safe :)

**Author's Note:**

> as always comments make me so so happy!! also i have other works that are more thought out than this, go check them out lol
> 
> have a great day and be kind to yourself and others!


End file.
